


the last of the real ones

by sundayrice



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Imperial!Chocobros, Imperial!Prompto, Introspection, M/M, One Shot, Roleswap, Strangers to Lovers, Vignette, ambiguous but very hopeful, fateswap au, prompto is like a hitman/assassin, romance is not the focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 08:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14712860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundayrice/pseuds/sundayrice
Summary: Writing about his day job, that's the easy part. He's been hired to watch over the MTs. It's the price he pays to be permitted his name and his place. High Commander Prompto Besithia suits him better than his unit number ever did.Prompto takes care of the stragglers too, that's the part he won't tell Prince Noctis in his letter. An executioner, his father would say. Askinner, the other medical personnel call him.Tell me more about yourself.Prompto gulps.I don't think you want me too.





	the last of the real ones

**Author's Note:**

> **content warnings: blood, death, gun violence, knife violence and (very minor) allusions to self-harm (no actual depictions).**
> 
> this is part of an FFXV Fateswap AU that i've thought about for a long time. this is pretty heavily AU so the way the chocobros act can be seen as pretty ooc by canon standards. but imo, i think it's reasonable given the scenario that i've made up here.
> 
> also, while i tagged this as promptis, it's more like a lead-up to promptis, like this is the beginning of a relationship. romance is not the focus though, it more about prompto's thoughts and feelings about his life.

#  **_i._ **

Sometimes, Prompto loses track of where he is. He throws his head back and closes his eyes. He's just trying to think, but the sounds that wash over him take his mind to another place. In the background, it all blends together into a symphony of indistinct voices.

He knows where he is. This is home. Home is the walls of steel-gray that blend together seamlessly until Prompto doesn't know which direction is which. The only break from the walls is a wide window made of darkened, bulletproof glass. Occasionally, he'll see blurry bodies pass by, heads always ducked low to cover faces that don't exist.

His head drops back down, his hands fumble with the piece of paper between them. The delicate cursive twists in ways that are almost illegible. But no doubt, that's the signature of the Emperor's. And beside it, another signature. _The Prince's._

The noise in the background starts to become more concentrated, less blurry. There's something there and it's drawing nearer. Footsteps, Prompto realizes. Thundering, aggressive footsteps. Getting closer and closer to him until they pause. Then they approach again.

That's the sound of his father's footsteps. Prompto's trained himself to recognize it.

His father is barely seen in Prompto's periphery. Prompto's trying to keep his eyes away from the glass window and yet he feels drawn to it.

He would even say it hurts, just a little bit. It isn't the sound that hurts him. Instead, it's something else. An unidentifiable pain that resonates inside him.

Slowly, his father approaches, giving up on any pretense that he didn't notice Prompto.

"Haven't you heard, sir? The prince wants to pay a visit to the facility," Prompto approaches the glass window and presses his palm against the glass. “Awful cute of him."

He's waiting for his father to do the same. Press his hand against the glass and reveal the veins that run beneath his skin like purple pulses of lightning. His fingers, they've started to shake with something that wasn't there when Prompto was little. He's not nervous; no, not in Prompto's conscious memory can he ever remember his father being nervous.

Instead, his father matches him with a piercing gaze. His hand is now clenched. It hides the shaking a little bit, but not enough that Prompto won't notice. "He's coming to inspect the progress of the _Project_ , I presume?" he says.

"As good a guess as any, sir."

A heavy air sits about; it makes Prompto feel uneasy. He goes out of his way to avoid speaking with his father and whenever the two do speak to each other, it's always as if it was the first time.

He hates his father's face. His angry eyebrows and crooked nose and dreary eyes. He hates the thought that one day, that face of his father's will become his own.

"Inform His Radiance that it isn't necessary and that everything is progressing just fine on its own," his father says with a cough.

Prompto blinks. He noticed his father lift his hand to shield the cough, only to withdraw it moments later. Everything his father does is calculated. He's trying to avoid Prompto as much as Prompto's trying to avoid him. He's always been hiding things from Prompto but it's no use; Prompto's bred to be just as observant as the rest of them.

His body is starting to fail him, Prompto thinks. A thought that makes him all too excited. He plays with his gun, sitting comfortably in its holster.

As his father starts to walk away, Prompto sinks back down into the weight of his mattress.

They've removed him of any sharp implements. His weapons, surely soon the guards will come and force them back into containment. The room no longer has a lamp, only the overhead lights built into the ceiling. No desks. No mirrors. Supposedly, the glass sheet between him and them is shatterproof; Prompto's more than happy to test otherwise.

If he had a crowbar, Prompto would break the glass between them. He might use the crowbar to smash his father's head in. Or pull out his revolver and shove it down his throat. He'd sully his prized gun that way but it'd be worth it to watch the old soul gasp for breath, helpless and afraid.

He can't wait to see his old man die.

 

#  **_ii._ **

_Dearest Commander Besithia,_

 

_I hope you’re hanging in okay. To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure what your job entails but I hope it hasn’t been too rough on you. Your father always tells the Emperor that you’re quite good at what you do, so that’s something to be proud of._

_But anyways, I’d like to apologize. Mostly because this month’s letter might be a bit short. I’m not really allowed to say much, but I’ve been kinda busy traveling all over Niflheim. Typical royal stuff, I guess you could say. And Father wants me to start preparing for the wedding, so that takes a lot of time off my hands._

_Other than that though, I’m doing fine. A lot of stuff to get done but none of it’s really that interesting._

_It’s always nice to receive a letter from you, so don’t be afraid to keep them coming. Tell me more about yourself next time, I'd love a chance to get to know you better._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

 

_Prince Noctis Aldercapt_

He closes his eyes. Prompto reaches out his hand, imagining the rest of Niflheim surrounding him in the empty space between his fingers and the wall. He doesn't know where its borders begin and end, how far it extends. He can't even be sure that something exists outside of the walls of the facility. Everywhere he's ever known is the facility, it's inescapable.

Carefully, Prompto folds the letter and places it next to his bed. The framework of the bed is sturdy metal, but he thinks he's seen a few weak spots here and there. Prompto wonders if his raw strength would be enough to break it. With that, he'd fashion some sort of weapon and then—

No. It isn't his place to be thinking about things so dire after Prince Noctis went through the trouble of sending him back a letter. Prompto traces over the writing with his thumb, feeling how the ink rises from the paper.

Prince Noctis is his escape from the facility. Periodically, Prompto sends letters to the prince and Prince Noctis always seems kind enough to send one back. Prompto should not be permitted to read and write and yet his father allows him such pleasantries. _Lucky me_ , he supposes.

 _Tell me more about yourself_ , written in a neat cursive.

He's interrupted once more by a knock. A knock on the glass is a signal that one of his father's couriers has arrived. They slip a small package under the door, consisting only of a pencil – no eraser – and a few slips of paper.

He doesn't need to tell Noctis about his family, but he figures talking about his job is innocuous enough. He picks up the pencil and begins writing. Prompto's writing isn't neat like Noctis's, it's cramped, uneven. Ugly.

Writing about his day job, that's the easy part. He's been hired to watch over the MTs. It's the price he pays to be permitted his name and his place. High Commander Prompto Besithia suits him better than his unit number ever did.

Prompto takes care of the stragglers too, that's the part he won't tell Prince Noctis in his letter. An executioner, his father would say. A _skinner_ , the other medical personnel call him.

_Tell me more about yourself._

Prompto gulps.

_I don't think you want me too._

 

 

The heavy metal doors that barricade his room part ways and near the door is a small slip of paper. The couriers have come by again. But this time, this delivery, it must be something much more unpleasant.

He unfolds it.

 _0733-04295728_ , the paper reads. Unit 04295728. That's the one he's supposed to cut down.

There are other personal details about Unit 04295728 scribbled on the paper, ranging from his production date to his medical details.

There's one detail they'll never tell. It never says why the unit must be eliminated. Defiance, physical instability, emotional instability, poor melee performance, slow reaction time. Regardless of the reasoning, Prompto is to erase Unit 04295728 from the records as though he's never existed.

This too is all routine.

He'd like to take his revolver, one clean shot to the head is more than enough for an MT, though the revolver is certain to echo throughout the facility. These things he does, they aren't always a covert operation. Sometimes, the medical staff perk their heads up from their clipboard and sterile tools, just for a second. A half-empty syringe in one hand and both bloodshot eyes drawn to the large booming sound that came from down the corridor. The medical staff certainly know what he does. Otherwise, he wouldn't have his nicknames.

This time, Prompto decides, it is a covert operation. He brings a small knife, the slip of paper, and a tag tracker. And then he's off.

 

#  **_iii._ **

The tag tracker says that Unit 04295728 is on his way to the hangar for aerial training.

According to the slip, he's about a year or two older than Prompto. Though he’s already been relegated to his armor, he is, in a sense, still human. It’s as much humanity as being in _Project Deathless_ could allow, before he’s completely taken over by the daemons in his veins. But that humanity is a problem, at least, when you've grown to be a young man like Unit 04295728 has. Intellect is fearful, independence is scary, and the first step they take to remove you of your humanity is convincing you that both statements are true.

His independence then, that must be why Unit 04295728 is to be eliminated.

(His father doesn't call it 'independence', he calls it 'defiance' instead.)

He's lucky to have caught Unit 04295728 alone. The other MT units all march ahead of him. They trail behind a Niff army commander, almost like baby chicks to their mother. He stands out among them for his slightly off-beat walk. The commander sets a rhythm and the MTs follow suit.

He'll catch 04295728 as the Commander turns around another corner. Prompto is, for once, grateful that the facility has such winding corridors. Works to his advantage.

Just as the last of the MT squadron leaves Prompto's sight, his tense palm grips onto 04295728's arm. 04295728’s head whips back as Prompto yanks him in.

Prompto takes his loose bandana and shoves it into 04295728's mouth. At first, he gags, a bit of spit coming out too. He tries desperately to cough it out, yet Prompto's fingers only push the cloth in further.

He screams. He cries. He thrashes his arms violently as Prompto's got him in a headlock. Water starts to gather in 04395728's eyes. He keeps screaming but everything comes out dry, words without weight. Barely words at all.

They're about the same size and Prompto has no trouble lifting 04295728 off his feet. For an MT, Prompto isn’t particularly strong, although he’s at least able to lift twice his weight. They've never made the MTs that durable, but raw muscle power is part of their functional requirements, as is their good senses and heat resistance.

He slams Unit 04295728 against the nearest wall and holds him down. Prompto quickly draws the knife from his holster. There's the sound of sharp and heavy heaving that fills Prompto's ears until the racing of his own heart is no longer audible. Unit 04295728 is struggling against him. He keeps heaving, heaving, heaving.

Prompto swiftly lifts the knife to his bare throat and forces it through the skin. It's hot, it's hot, the blood burns. Prompto himself is unscathed but the heat from the blood hurts him.

04295728 chokes. He spits. Out comes thick blood from his mouth, almost violently so. He tries to bite down but the cloth stops him, only getting heavier as it soaks up all the blood.

Unit 04295728's body falls limp, bright red blood still pouring from the open wound. What little color his cheeks has before, it's all gone now.

There's a little stain of crimson red that seeps into the white sleeve of Prompto's uniform.

He's supposed to discard both the slip of paper and the body into the _Back Room_ , but instead, he keeps the little slip of paper secure in his breast pocket.

To pin on his bedroom wall for later.

He peers down at the body and parts back his hair to see eyes stuck wide open. A little ring of red around irises so bright and blue. Unit 04295728 is delicate, almost angelic, as he hangs dead in Prompto's arms.

Oh how comfortable the corpse feelings in his arms. And oh how wrong it feels that Prompto stares through 04295728's dead-struck eyes that only moments ago were unsuspecting of a knife to the throat. Oh how Prompto wonders where he went wrong. Or, if he ever had a chance to make it right in the first place.

 

#  **_iv._ **

05443786\. 02168250. 06391711. 03869570. 02168563. 05846341. 01154840. 03887543. 03998720. 01487624. 00765487. 05612346. 00886341. 00012333. 05445755. 05324412. 04577826. 00253634. 0567564—  
  
0567564—

Prompto pauses. This one has a tear right at the last digit, leaving it illegible.

It's a crude sort of decoration that hangs on the wall of his room, furthest away from the glass window. A long, thin string, haphazardly cut with one of his knives. The tape used to attach the paper to the string is all medical tape; Prompto's robbed a few doctors here and there but none of them have ever done anything about it. He's nearly untouchable, so long as he does his duty well.

In all honestly, Prompto is surprised they haven't removed the string from the room. Anything to provide an escape, that's something to get rid of. But maybe they've finally caught on. Prompto wants to escape with his life. He'd love to run. Run away from here. He doesn't have any idea where he'd go, or what he'd even be able to do. Run, that's all he needs to do. If he makes the first step, it's one step closer than he was before.

Prompto's thoughts are interrupted when he hears an unfamiliar voice outside of his room. A deep baritone and slightly hushed. There are other voices that blend in along with it. Those too are hushed. Almost as if they know Prompto is listening and they're trying to hide something.

He turns around to see a tall figure. Furrowed brow, a confident stance with his shoulders pulled back and his neck long.

The man averts his attention from Prompto once he catches his gaze through the bulletproof glass. Something about his look carries a hint of disgust, though maybe it's there to mask his curiosity. He's being followed around by two of the medical staff.

From the window, it looks as though the medical staff are opening the doors to his room. He's needed outside. Do they want him to kill this man?

No, perhaps not. The man is talking friendly with the medical staff, Prompto can tell from the man's face. And his armor, the man's armor is blood red with hints of silver and gold that shine through. A Niff army general from the looks of it.

The medical staff gesture for Prompto to step out of the room. He does, now standing directly opposite the man. Even taller is he now than when Prompto was peering at him through the window.

"Being held in quarantine?" the man asks.

He's clearly asking the medical personnel, but before either answer, Prompto steps in. "You could say that. Don't worry, I'm not poisonous."

"The High Commander, I'm guessing?" he says. The man's eyes are cast downward and the slight confusion in his voice is a sure sign that he's patronizing Prompto. Prompto's used to it at this point. "Prompto Besithia, right?"

Prompto bows. "Most people don't bother with the first name," As Prompto reaches his left hand out, the older man looks reserved and tense, almost shaken inside. Timidly, the man decides to shake Prompto's hand in return. "Nice to meet you. You are—?"

"General Gladiolus Amicitia, His Highness's retainer," he says. _Ah, so that's what he's here for._ "Don't bother with the titles though, never really suited me anyway."

 

 

Prompto takes Gladiolus for a tour around the facility. Orders from the medical staff on behalf of his father.

He'll tell himself that this isn't the worst it could be. Gladiolus isn't badcompany, that's for sure. In fact, he's far friendlier than Prompto expected.

They've spoken for a good hour or two by now. Half on their respective duties, half about their personal lives. He learns that Gladiolus isn't one of the idealistic types, the boys far too young who join the military in hopes of something great. He was born into a military family and he tells Prompto that he’ll die that way too.

Prompto, meanwhile, mostly keeps out of the 'personal life' discussion. He contents himself with simply listening.

Gladiolus starts. He usually does. “Y'know, Commander Besithia,” he says.

“Just Prompto,” Prompto says.

“Right. Prompto,” Gladiolus says. “I wasn't aware Chief Besithia had a son.”

“He doesn't,” Prompto says. He doesn't have any sons. Only toys.

Gladiolus raises his brow. “Then what about,” his voice starts to trail off. Seems that Prompto doesn't need to explain the truth to him. Everyone figures it out in due time.

Gladiolus goes on, frequently mentioning his father's name. Chief Besithia this, Chief Besithia that. Does Gladiolus take Prompto for an idiot? Maybe so, but Prompto's well aware of what he's trying to do. He wants Prompto to talk about his family. Any semblance of normalcy is what Gladiolus wants – or rather, expects – from Prompto.

But even still, Prompto enjoys this. He likes the way that Gladiolus talks to him, in a comfortable sort of manner. And though it might all be feigned, Prompto would rather have that than the alternative.

"—And this place is the _Storage Room,"_ Prompto says. Unofficial names prescribed by himself. He's never quite figured out what any of these rooms are actually called, if anything at all. He likes his names better. Keeps things simple.

"Storage for what?"

"You'll see."

Prompto has a particular distaste for the _Storage Room_. The general atmosphere of it is somber, even more so than any other room in the facility. The smell of it reminds him of the _Back Room_. It’s carrying the musk of sweat. Even the air feels more humid than the other rooms, causing Prompto’s shirt and gloves to stick to his skin.

He looks back at Gladiolus. Gladiolus, who is wide-eyed, must not have expected this. No one does, for some reason, even though everyone is very aware as to what the true purpose of this facility is. Perhaps everyone, Gladiolus included, was simply living in their own excessive denial. MTs do not exist underneath their masks. That is what everyone believes, that is what the Empire will tell you. What is an MT but an empty husk of metal?

Prompto keeps a straight face and waves his hand, indicating to Gladiolus that he should follow him. Gladiolus, meanwhile, still has his eyes prodding around the room. Once they reach the back ends of the _Storage Room_ , Gladiolus presses his hands against one of the glass pods. Inside of it is an expressionless body floating about in clear liquid, with dainty bubbles rising to the top. There is no movement, no breathing, no sign of life even. And despite the MTs closed eyes, some part of it may feel like he is staring back at Gladiolus, perhaps his own reflection in the bubbles. Or the stark lines of the barcode that draws his eyes in.

Prompto's lucky he sleeps in his room instead of the glass pods. 'Lucky',in this instance, being loose in definition.

Gladiolus traces his finger along the glass, forming small circles over the MT’s face. He squints. "Have to say, I'm not used to seeing this many skin jobs." To that remark, Prompto coughs. Everyone seems to forget that Prompto is a so-called 'skin job' too.

"Odd thing to say in the facility that literally creates them," Prompto says while playing with the gun in his holster.

Gladiolus coughs. "Yeah, I guess so. Well, what I meant was I've never seen so many that are, uh," _Like you._ "Like you, I guess."

"I get that a lot," Prompto says.

When Gladiolus turns back to face Prompto, he gives him the same scrutinizing eye as the MT he was looking at just moments ago.

“Strong family resemblance,” Prompto says dryly.

Gladiolus holds himself upright. “Right,” he says. Even though he speaks casually with Prompto, Gladiolus must think there's something about Prompto that leaves him on edge. And for that, Prompto can’t really blame him.

He might be insensitive, perhaps a little, but Gladiolus is a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale life. A new face among the many that he's come to know after the years.

 

#  **_v._ **

Having a visitor is a rare occurrence. Having two visitors in a month and there might as well have been a blue moon.

Two weeks later, General Gladiolus Amicitia has returned, and he makes his presence known by nodding carelessly at Prompto while he's in the middle of inspecting a hoard of MTs. He smiles at him and Prompto smiles back, not bothering to be annoyed.

There is a second presence, one that is unfamiliar. A tall young man. Not as tall as Gladiolus, but still every bit as daunting. His eyes are sharp and focused and his lips are pulled tight in a thin line so as not to show any hint of emotion. His armor is different from Gladiolus's, jet-black with red accents. Horns and spikes just like Ifrit's. His stance shows he's nothing short of a confident killer.

Before Prompto can get away, Gladiolus's hand grips around his shoulder. "I'm back," he says while leaning in. "And I brought a friend."

Duly noted. Gladiolus has brought Prompto the man that will kill him. Why Prompto has such a sinking feeling that this man will attempt to kill him is unknown. For now, Prompto can only blame it on the look the man is giving him. Stern. Callous. Absolutely, without a doubt, murderous.

"Commodore Ignis Scientia," the man says.

"The wild card of the Niflheim army," Gladiolus teases and Ignis lightly elbows him in the side, with an expression that edges between anger and embarrassment.

Ignis Scientia, a name Prompto recognizes from one of the newspapers he got a doctor to smuggle him. He's already discarded it but he remembers that name, even if he's since forgotten everything else. The former Tenebraen count turned to the life of a mercenary ever since Tenebrae fell to Niflheim. His loyalty is not guaranteed to anyone except the Prince, not even the Emperor. _The wild card of the Niflheim army_ , as Gladiolus said.

If there's anyone not to be trifled with, it's probably him.

Ignis smiles, a bit strained, as he walks past and Prompto does the same. Prompto wonders if they've both been sent as some sort of distraction. Ignis might've been sent by Prince Noctis to assassinate his father; even among Niflheim, his reputation remains sour. Not that Prompto particularly minds, of course, except for the fact that he has to clean up the blood afterward.

 

 

Prompto does not lead Ignis around the facility. Rather, he's advised by one of the senior medical staff to stay as far away from Ignis as possible.

Ignis is dangerous, Ignis is a threat. Seemingly in spite of this, the younger members of the medical staff don't stop gawking at him as he walks alongside Gladiolus.

"General Amicitia and Commodore Scientia requested an audience with Chief Besithia," one of the doctors informs Prompto and he takes that as an opportunity to observe the two of them.

He is, of course, not allowed into the room, though he does stand squarely outside of it, guarding the door like a loyal puppy and his ears are pricked up in all his interest. He tries to focus his hearing and tune out all of the background noise.

For the most part, their conversation is rather unexciting. Prompto learns they've come on behalf of the Prince.

“It's a fool's move to just let Prince Noctis wandering in, even the Emperor knows that,” Ignis says. “Despite what you might think sir, the Prince can be a bit reckless at times. Safety precautions is all.”

“I'm well aware,” his father says. Prompto cannot see his face and yet he senses some sort of condescending glare has been put upon it. Then again, he can hardly remember a time he saw his father's face without a glare.

After a bit more idle chatter mostly focused around the Prince, the room falls silent.

If they truly have come to assassinate his father, then they're taking their sweet time.

Prompto hears the sound of a chair leg scraping against the floor and Gladiolus and Ignis's subdued whispers as they both bid his father a _“goodbye”_. It's disingenuous, to say the very least.

Prompto steps to the side as Gladiolus and Ignis exit the room. His father, while he falls victim to the usual cough, doesn't seem to be getting any deader.

He's made it through this time, unscathed. _Disappointing_ , Prompto thinks.

 

#  **_vi._ **

Visitors are an excuse, mostly. The more visitors, the more time to examine the facility. The more time to talk, the more time Prompto has to forget about all this.

He's about to attach the paper for Unit 03726351 when he hears a tap on the glass window. A young doctor is standing outside, gesturing for him to come join her.

Three figures in his periphery. Outside of his room and slightly down the hallway. Three figures and the doctor. He thinks he sees his father too, though his presence shrinks among the rest around him. The taller two of the three figures obscure the shortest one behind them.

He tries to focus his vision. In clear sight now he sees angular black pauldrons like the horns of Ifrit. Or the blood red breastplate and thin, elongated sword with a matching red hilt. Ignis Scientia and Gladiolus Amicitia.

The third figure can only be one other person: Prince Noctis. In the flesh and blood. It must be him, even if Prompto only caught him for a glance.

He's wearing his own distinct set of armor too. It's white and gold, in comparison to the stark colors that Gladiolus and Ignis don. He wears a long, white cloak, split at the bottom similar to a reptile’s tongue and a golden pauldron on his left shoulder. His hands are covered by scale-like gloves. The tips of his finger glow the faintest bit yellow with the magic of the Oracle.

Just as Prompto steps out of his room, Noctis is already pacing towards him. Rather excitedly, like a small child in a candy store. Or how Prompto felt when he first learned to wield a knife. Pleasure in the small things.

Prince Noctis glances at him. No, glance is not the right word. It’s more of a prolonged stare, almost a gawk. His eyes begin at Prompto’s head and works his way down the length of his body until Prompto notices he has his eyes fixed on the hostler of his gun and the handle of his knife.

Noctis lifts his head again to meet Prompto’s gaze. They stand with only a few feet between them, almost at eye-level with each other. Prompto's heeled boots have him standing the smallest bit taller. As Noctis tilts his head upwards and ever-so-slightly, Prompto notices that way his neck flexes and his jaw is clenched tight.

“Commander Besithia,” Noctis says.

“Your Highness,” Prompto says.

Then, like a jolt of lightning had run through his spine, he bows for Prince Noctis. He mustn't forget his station, even after the casual sentiment Noctis shows him in his letter. The mere thought of approaching the prince is already overstepping his boundaries.

As Prompto stands back up, he catches a hint of Noctis's laugh.

He can’t help but notice the way Gladiolus and Ignis stand. Tall and withdrawn, stiff as a lamppost. Gladiolus especially seemed so relaxed before and now his demeanor has shifted completely. Ignis—well Prompto can't say he's seen too much of Ignis before—even he didn't have this same level of tenseness before.

“Wonderful to see you’ve been acquainted with our newest visitor,” Prompto turns around—his father, of course. Prompto couldn't forget his voice no matter how hard he tries.

There's something a bit different about his father today. Perhaps it's the forced smile or the kindness in his voice. Prompto thinks he's going to throw up.

“Show our guest around the facility, Prompto,” his father says. “It's only polite.”

Prompto's about to feel sick to his stomach. His father simply smiles at him. What a bastard he is, patronizing Prompto again, like he's some sort of small child. Meanwhile, Noctis doesn't seem to sense the animosity and looks at Prompto eagerly.

He turns to his father and returns him a curt nod, then waves his hand for Noctis to follow him.

As Noctis starts to follow behind him, Prompto doesn't look back. If he would have, maybe then he would've caught his father's painted-on smile begin to chip away.

 

 

Prompto would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed Gladiolus’s company on the first day. Or the brief, but vaguely amicable glances he shared with Ignis. He’s starting to become more comfortable with these talks. He still feels a bit out of his element and tries his best to avoid anything personal that Noctis asks him. For Prompto, the interest comes from hearing about Noctis’s life instead. Even from Noctis’s letters, there’s only so much that Prompto knows.

"You can ask me about the Project, y'know," Prompto says, out of obligation more than interest. "That's what you came here for, is it not?"

"Perhaps," Prince Noctis says with a chuckle.

So he has other motives. Prompto feels like an idiot, he should've already known that. No one just visits the facility. Not unless they’re going to get something in return. Or unless they’re looking for trouble.

They're about to approach the _Storage Room_ again. Begrudgingly, Prompto steps inside. Noctis follows closely behind.

Noctis goes wide-eyed for a second and begins to approach one of the glass pods. Unlike Gladiolus, he is careful to keep his distance and simply observes.  

“Inactive MTs,” Prompto speaks before Noctis does. “They won’t respond to anything, not until you activate them.”

Noctis takes a long while to examine each one of the MTs. Like Gladiolus, he seems to be comparing the way they look to Prompto.

"Are you the original one, then?" Noctis asks. "The original clone, I mean."

"Nah, not at all," Prompto says with a laugh. "We've cycled through thousands of ‘em at this point. According to my dad, he says I'm an anomaly, whatever that means. Maybe that's why he decided to take me out of the _Project_. Other than that, don't really know."

He's an anomaly, though no more an anomaly than Unit 04295728 was. Or 05443786. 02168250. 06391711. Any of the units he's eliminated.

They were all anomalies like him, only under a different name. Defective. That's what his father calls the anomalies he doesn't like enough to spare.

Prompto could've been defective too. But he thanks the Astrals, thanks them if they're even listening, that he's not defective. And that he's still alive.

"Anomaly," Prompto hears Noctis whisper.

Prince Noctis is an odd one, Prompto will give him that. His heart is too heavy for his position.

Noctis's lips start to quiver. “Why does your father need so many MTs?” he asks.

Prompto laughs. “Collateral damage prevention,” he says. “Or more accurately, having disposable soldiers means less of our real soldiers end up dead on the battlefield.”

"People die all the time," Noctis says. "That's what being the Emperor means. No matter what you do, someone always dies in the end. The only thing that changes is how many people die. And who dies so the others can live."

He senses the bitterness in Noctis's voice. A bitterness that he too knows, though of a different taste. Noctis is staring onwards at the glass pod, one hand scrunching the fabric of his shirt while the other is hesitantly reaching forward.

"Dad makes cannon fodder so people like you don't have to die anymore," Prompto says. He shouldn't have said that. He knows it's not going to make Noctis feel any better.

"And what about the people that end up dying instead of me?"

"As far as the record books are concerned, we were never even alive in the first place."

 

#  **_vii._ **

Once night comes, the facility falls silent. It's the only way that Prompto can tell time. None of the rooms have a clock, nor do any of the corridors. Time is a commodity kept private among the Commanders, and as Prompto's learned from asking the medical staff, there's only few who are privy to owning a watch. Had Prompto been a regular Commander, his father would've provided him with a watch already.

But time is a dangerous gift, so his father doesn't.

Prompto notices heels clacking in the corridor outside. Quick first but then louder in succession as they draw closer.

“Commander Besithia?” he hears a timid, muffled whisper.

It's unusual for the medical staff to address him directly. Normally, they like to keep their distance. Prompto, however, recognizes her. A young and timid doctor who's temperament surely doesn't belong in the facility and yet she stays anyways.

As usual, the doctor holds herself shyly with closed off posture. In one hand she has the slip of paper, almost hidden in the pleats of her skirt that she grips onto so tightly.

“For you,” she pauses and takes in a sharp breath. “Commander Besithia.”

He grabs the slip and opens it.

 _0730-03726351_ , the paper reads. He skims through the details.

Hurriedly, he picks back up his jacket and laces his boots.

There’s one pistol left with a full magazine. He regrets to cause a scene in the nighttime, though some part of him feels like there’s no choice. Unit 03726351 will have the bombastic death that every MT anticipates since the day they’re dispatched to the army.

To be betrayed by your own brother. Prompto wonders what that would feel like.

 

 

The soft glow from the tag tracker’s screen illuminates Prompto's face. He squints. It says that Unit 03726351 is close by.

It's unusual for an MT to be awake and active during the night hours, without a squadron no less. Unit 03726351 is one of the defiant ones.

A flaw in his programming that's somehow allowed him to defy complete subservience. It usually means that something must be wrong with his genetics, he's a developed a resistance to the daemons. Respectable, though Prompto thinks it's a shame that such a thing is gone to waste.

Down the corridor, 03726351 wanders aimlessly. He doesn't appear to know how or even why he's awake at night.

Prompto draws his gun. An easy target in an empty corridor. 03726351 is making this easy on him, Prompto thinks as his hands begin to fumble for the trigger.

Slowly, Prompto approaches. He'll get as close as he can to 03726351 before he shoots him. He doesn't exactly know why, although something in his gut is telling him that this is the right thing to do. Give 03726351 his last moments of solitude, of a brief and fleeting freedom.

As Prompto continues to walk forward, his rubber soles make an ugly screech against the floor, causing 03726351 to jerk back around.

 _Bang._ One shot in the chest.

 _Bang._ One shot in the stomach.

 _Bang._ One shot in the head.

And he keeps going and going and going until all of his rounds have been emptied on this poor MT that's left to twitch and turn violently on the ground as the daemonic substance inside of him oozes from the holes in his armor.

The daemonic bile mixes with a dark red liquid, something vaguely resembling blood though it's not quite the same. It smells too foul to be.

Now, Prompto has no choice but to haul the body to the _Back Room_. Perhaps it's better in the darkness and without the woefully worried looks that the doctors give him.

He opts to carry Unit 03726351 on his back, like a tired child who can't walk anymore. Lifting 03726351, the jagged edges of his armor pierce Prompto's body.

The _Back Room_ is tucked away behind a small corridor. Prompto rolls back his right sleeve and scans the barcode to the pad.

As the doors to the _Back Room_ open, Prompto winces. It's foul, bitter and burning in his nostrils. There’s a reason Prompto usually leaves the aftermath for the doctors to deal with. And even if he hauls the body back to the corridor, he’s never the one to dispose of it. The metallic scent of blood is heavy, to the point that he feels it in his mouth and down his throat.

The room is barely illuminated, he sees a full crimson light reflect off of 03726351’s mask. Prompto doesn’t want to turn on the lights. He simply places down the body, careful not to look back.

It’s too late for Prompto to clean his boots. As he heads back to his room, the blood and bile underneath smear all over the floor.

Briefly, he checks his pocket to make sure the slip is still inside. He’ll hang it in his room once morning comes.

 

#  **_viii._ **

During his first visit, Prompto avoided showing Noctis his room. It's inevitable and Prompto's already grown to accept that. He must accept that, otherwise, his father will persist until the deed is done anyway.

Still, Prompto is a bit reluctant to take Noctis back to his room. No matter what, he'll have to walk past the corridor where he shot Unit 0372651. Prince Noctis doesn't notice anything, not as Prompto is trying to stop himself from gagging at the taste of blood.

Noctis might've flinched as he entered the room. Prompto can't be sure, he didn't quite catch the prince's face, though any sort of look twisted with disgust is something to be expected. If he hadn't flinched, it would've been more worrisome than if he had.

“What's this?” Noctis says, making his way towards the string decoration. He crouches down to examine every bit of paper, taking the damaged ends in between his fingertips. He also seems to take notice of the string’s quality, the way it starts to fray at both ends.

Prompto says nothing.

“What's wrong?”

Again, silence.

“ _Prompto_.”

“I,” Prompto’s voice is barely a mutter. “I’m sorry for not telling you about this sooner.”

Prince Noctis gives him a puzzled look.

“About my job, I mean,” Prompto clears his throat. “I’ve always been the one who does the dirty work, I guess you could say.”

There's no answer, only the sound of Noctis shuffling with the paper slips as he tries to examine them. Then, after a bit of a pause, he starts to read the Unit numbers out loud, digit by digit.

Then, after Prince Noctis finishes reading from all the slips, he slumps down in his own realization. He laughs a bit, clearly distraught, though Prompto thinks he can't find any other way to express his disgust. Yes, just laugh at Prompto, Prompto would rather have that than being rejected out of disgust.

After a while, Prince Noctis falls into silence. "Do you ever feel guilty for taking the blood of your own brothers?" he asks, matter-of-factly.

He pauses. How did he feel as he lifted the knife, raised the muzzle of his gun until it's cold metal was pressing into the back of an MT?

" _No_ ," Prompto says with finality. "A job is a job. Besides, they're all long gone by the time I'm taken in to deal with them."

Half truth, half lie. Prompto knows some of them still have their humanity in them. Prince Noctis simply shrugs. He seems rather nonchalant about the entire  _murder_ aspect. The prince is a hard one to read, no doubt. But perhaps he and Prompto were forged from the same fires after all.

His father always told him it wasn’t murder. He told Prompto he's doing them all a favor. And, for once, Prompto agrees with him. Once the MTs have been fully transformed into daemons, there's little life left for them outside of the facility.

Even if the MTs die in battle, there will be no grave to remember them. No monuments either.

A _skinner_ is what the medical staff call him. A gravekeeper is the name that Prompto prefers. A new name for those who dedicate themselves to remembering the things that the universe has better left forgotten.

 

#  **_ix._ **

After a while, Prompto stops keeping track of how often he’s been seeing Prince Noctis. Sometimes the visits are monthly, sometimes they happen weekly. Recently, Noctis has decided to visit more and more often.

It occurs to Prompto, that maybe, Prince Noctis is finding excuses to keep visiting him. He’s had his suspicions for a long time that Noctis and his men are here to assassinate his father. They might’ve even been here to assassinate Prompto himself, though Prompto can't discern any reason why they’d want to, aside from his own morbid desire to entertain the thought.

But as time goes on, Noctis’s motives have become less and less clear. If Noctis really did want to kill Prompto, he's certain Noctis would've gotten Ignis or Gladiolus to do it by now.

Prompto was right about one thing, the Prince’s unpredictable nature and surprising amounts of secrecy despite his numerous attempts to gain information about Prompto’s life. That interest of his to learn more about Prompto, that’s the key to solving this all.

Prompto paces around his room nervously. In his head, with his body, he's just been running circles. The crown of Niflheim have always been tough one's to crack and the fact that Prompto can't figure Noctis out starts to eat away at him, like some venomous itch, or a crawling contagion. 

His pacing comes to a halt. Could it be then, that Noctis wants to spend time with Prompto for another reason? Not because he's one of Noctis's pawns, perhaps just because he simply likes spending time with Prompto.

Prompto can't say he considers himself particularly charming, though it's easier to fake through his letters. Noctis’s told him a few times he likes his writing. The prose, the words, the imagery; it all comes naturally to him. Through his confinement, he’s learned to imagine all of the things the world has stripped him of.

(It seems that alone was enough to win Prince Noctis over.)

Even still, Prince Noctis is already being offered to Princess Lunafreya of Lucis as bait. And Prompto can only watch from afar as the Emperor dangles the bait in front of Princess Lunafreya. Whether she'll take the bite, surrender herself or not, is out of his control.

Why is he so concerned with Prince Noctis's marriage anyway? It's none of Prompto's concern, really. He and Noctis aren't even _anything_ , are they?

They're nothing. He's nothing.

And yet he can’t help but think of that stare that Prince Noctis gives him. Though his eyes were full of emptiness, there’s something comforting in that emptiness. Comfort in familiarity, where Prompto knows that he and Noctis are more similar than either are willing to admit.

Prompto shakes his head. This won’t do, this won’t do at all. All Prompto can think about is Noctis. He thinks about all that Noctis had told him. What parts of his stories does Prompto remember and what parts were fabricated inside his own mind? Even that's beginning to become more and more unclear.

 

 

Noctis avoids discussing the Emperor. He avoids discussing duty, military, Niflheim, he avoids it all. And whenever the Emperor may be mentioned, his body grows tense and his tone of voice morphs into something darker. His eyes begin to grow heavier and narrower. The light is sucked out of them until Prompto no longer sees two eyes, so soft and blue, but instead two unmoving stones.

“Tell me more,” Prompto says. “Tell me more about the outside world.”

Noctis sits next to him, suddenly perking up at the mention of the outside world. The world that lives outside of the Magitek Facility.

Noctis goes on. He tells Prompto about the sunlight that reflected off the lake. He was crouched down by the dock, on hand firmly on its wooden planks and the other outstretched until it barely reached the water. And he kept on reaching, further and further, until his fingers just managed to reach the fish. Noctis had felt his fingers touch something, perhaps the slippery scales of the fish's sides.

“And then I fell into the lake,” Noctis says with a laugh. “Father was totally pissed about that one.”

Prompto laughs with him. Noctis’s story is all words, phrases, and colors that Prompto has no context for. But he has fun imagining it. The bright blue of the water, almost like what he saw in 04295728’s eyes. A deep dramatic blue with a shallow reflection.

Noctis seems happier. He smiles with that levity and grace Prompto was beginning to worry had disappeared.

"Is it nice back in Gralea?" Prompto asks.

"Well, all of Niflheim is practically frozen over so that kinda sucks," Noctis says. "But there's something really pretty about when the sun shines off the snow. Like you're walking through a field of diamonds. So yeah, it is nice."

 _Like you're walking through a field of diamonds._ A sight that Prompto can only hope to see one day.

 

#  **_x._ **

Prompto is not allowed in his father's study. No one is. Not the medical staff, nor the Commanders. Not even the Emperor himself.

Today, his father is not home. Today, his father may be in Gralea, or he may be still on his way. He might've been run over by a garula or mauled by a coeurl. Or maybe his own health had put him in jeopardy and he died from cardiac arrest.

It was all of a sudden that his father decided to leave for Gralea. A private audience with the Emperor, as Prompto was briefly informed. No matter what, that's already a poor sign. His father is planning something big.

Regardless, he'll have to discard his worries for now and focus on what he came here to do. Aside from his killings, Prompto can at least take pride in the fact that he's a good pickpocket. Even when he was younger, he'd often find ways to play tricks on his father, only to receive a dismissive slap and the title of "sneaky little bastard".

He's learned it from the best, after all.

The inside of his study is as Prompto suspected. No order or reason to the way the folders and papers are thrown about, everything looks like it was put together haphazardly as his father was rushing to leave for Gralea. There's a large clutter of papers on his father's desk, with a few pens that are missing their caps and puddles of ink that begin to form on the edge of the papers.

A cracked picture frame also sits on the desk, with the actual contents of the frame removed and sitting slightly behind it. The exact date of the photograph is unknown. Three people in the photograph; two young men, both blond, and one woman, hair slightly darker. One of the men is wearing a lab coat, the second has a garb that looks royal.

The interesting information, however, will come from elsewhere. From his folder that's been filled to the brim with miscellaneous reports, letters, and other writings. There's a familiar phrase on the front page. _Strength in Niflheim_. Prompto thinks it might be code for something, but he's been unable to decipher it. His father had a few short phrases he'd always say.

“Strength in Niflheim,” his father had said. “Remember this well: strength comes from our pride. That pride will allow us to rise above all else.”

He projected the words outwards, though not to anyone specifically. Instead, they echoed off the glass pods in every direction of the _Storage Room_ until he hears them again, only as an echo this time. His father was talking to himself, in hopes that maybe someone was listening.

Prompto can't remember how old he was when he first heard it. Five? Six? No more than seven, Prompto is certain of that much. Back then, he was still relegated to the cramped air of the glass pods. Back then, he still slept in the _Storage Room_ , with a small tag titled 0735-05953234 over his pod. Prompto can just barely remember his unit number. The thing that had once been a name to him has already begun to slip his mind.

Prompto continues to flip through the papers. One paper, crinkled and dyed the slightest bit yellow from spilled coffee, catches his eye.

It's a small bundle of papers, stapled together and nearly about to fall apart. The report for Unit 05953234. According to the stamp on the front, Unit 05953234 has been compromised. The front page also lists other information about Unit 05953234, such as his birthday and birth year—October 25th, M.E 735, fastly approaching.

Prompto knows that Unit 05953234 is him, and yet the lifeless image on the front of the report feels so unfamiliar that Prompto begins to disconnect himself from it. Unit 05953234 is indeed compromised. Even worse, he is dead and his body has been possessed by an outsider.

Against his better judgment, Prompto flips over the front page.

The entries are written much like diaries and full of phrases that have otherwise been obscured with crosses and lines or have been blacked out with large splotches of ink. The reports seem to have been partially written in some kind of code or special jargon only understandable to other researchers. He'll just have to find the easiest one to read and go from there.

**M.E. 735-736: DAEMON PLASMODIA TESTING TRIALS, UNITS CLASSIFIED 05000000-05999999**

The title doesn't resemble his father's handwriting. Prompto continues reading.

_On behalf of the estimable Chief Besithia,_

_To His Radiance Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt,_

_Enclosed below in this letter is the singular report made by Chief Besithia on MT Unit 0735-05953234. We've found something interesting about this unit in particular, that after five separate test attempts to inject the plasmodia into the young infant's brachial artery, we've seen no visible results compared to the other infants that showed near instantaneous signs of change. Chief Besithia suspects the infant has developed some sort of antibody resistance to the daemonic matter, though that remains to be determined. Chief Besithia requests that you read in full the report below, as he is considering preserving the infant for further research and requests formal acknowledgment before he is to continue._

The top of the letter has a dated stamp and a signature from the Emperor. The supposed report has also been removed.

Prompto picks up the next letter, supposedly written by the same courier.

**M.E. 736: RE: APPROVAL ON PRESERVATION OF MT UNIT CLASSIFIED 05953234**

_On behalf of the estimable Chief Besithia,_

_To His Radiance Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt,_

_Chief Besithia would like to thank Your Radiance for his approval on the decision to preserve MT Unit 0735-05953234. Chief Besithia has decided to store the unit alongside the rest of the Magitek Infantry for now, although he will likewise find a more suitable location in the future._

The next letter has different handwriting from the first two. It's more spacious and round, as opposed to the cramped cursive from before.

**M.E.: 745: RE: DECISION TO COMPROMISE MT UNIT CLASSIFIED 05953234**

_On behalf of the estimable Chief Besithia,_

_To His Radiance Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt,_

_Chief Besithia has official recorded MT Unit 0735-05953234 as compromised. Although, we've already started to come up with new names for the child. The senior staff have started calling him "Quicksilver", in part due to his natural aptitude for firearms and noticeable long-range sight. Chief Besithia has officially named the boy "Prompto" and will continue to train him as one of our army's commanders. He has also officially been moved from one of the storage pods to a suitable room._

_Though Chief Besithia dislikes the suggestion, another member of the research team suggests training the boy to become one of His Highness's retainers once they are both of age. Whatever Your Radiance decides is best for the boy, we hope to see him become a proud commander one day._

Prompto can't remember the first time his father ever called him by name. Seven? Eight? Nine? At that time, it had felt so freeing. The prospect that he was no longer confined inside of his pod and was getting a room of his own. At that time, he didn't need any more than what he was getting.

"This is what it means to live like a human, after all," one of the research team told him. Maybe at that time, in his temporary joy, Prompto really did feel alive.

Quicksilver. Prompto Besithia. The boy named after a number and then named after a weapon. Hardly human, hardly anything at all.

He slams the folder closed. Verstael Besithia is scribbled on the front cover of the report. Odd. Has Prompto never seen his father's full name before?

 

#  **_xi._ **

Prompto is going to turn twenty soon. The exact time he cannot be sure, though it must've been the coldest hour on October 25th that was his birthday. Birthdays are hypothetical possessions for MTs, those who are somehow human and yet have never been born. Only created.

Birthdays are an odd thing, Prompto decides, because they are humankind's odd acknowledgment of the fact that they will die one day. He's going to die one day, perhaps sooner than everyone else is. That's just how MTs are made; they've been programmed to die before they can outlive their usefulness. It could be in a few years. It could be tomorrow. And it wasn't as though he's done anything remarkable with his almost twenty years of life, at any rate.

Maybe for others, birthdays were a celebration of one's achievements or the collective appreciation of one’s existence. For Prompto, he considers it a reminder that he's already made it this far.

He's hesitant to mention to Noctis that it's his hypothetical birthday. This visit is, as it's always been, about Noctis and not about him.

“Prompto?” Noctis says. “Are you okay?”

To that, Prompto straightens his back. Noctis has asked this a few time, though every single time, Prompto is always caught off guard.  

“You're always asking me if I’m okay, but you don't seem that okay yourself,” Prompto says.

Noctis sighs. Once again, his eyes have grown darker, transformed into stones. "Shit's rough when you're a Prince, I suppose," Prompto notices how his lips lift the corners, despite the melancholy in his voice. The casual tone Prince Noctis assumes around Prompto must be a moment of repose for him, and so he finds pleasure in using expletives. 

"But what do I know," Noctis continues. "I've been living comfortably this whole time. I've never had to worry about having no one to take care of me."

And yet they both acknowledge, without a single word, that a roof over one's head does not mean that one is living 'comfortably'. A grimace appears on the prince's face. Prompto was right, his heart is too heavy for his position, so heavy in fact that Prompto worries it will sink him into the ground one day.

“Well, I just told you my bit,” Noctis says. “So now,”

His voice trails off, though Prompto knows well enough what he's planning to say. _Tell me more about yourself_. A simple request for most people but for Prompto it's somehow more challenging than any mission he's ever received in his whole life. He's already told Noctis enough. And he's surprised that Noctis still hasn't turned away.

“Well,” Prompto says. “It's my birthday soon.”

It's not much but it's a something. And more than enough to make Noctis smile.

“Happy almost birthday,” Noctis says. “What day?”

Prompto didn’t quite plan that far ahead. “October 25th,” he says, the words feeling comfortable coming off his tongue.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you a birthday gift,” Noctis says, his head dropping low.

Prompto’s face begins to turn red. That same heat that was gathering in his cheeks yesterday has returned. “It’s fine,” he says. “It really is. I mean, having you here is present enough for me.”

Noctis’s head jerks up and his cheeks start to flush red as well. “Thanks,” he says.

He senses Noctis as he starts to edge closer to him, the heat floods to the space in between their two bodies. And soon enough, Noctis’s hands find their place on top of Prompto's. Hand in hand, heart next to heart. It's beating so loudly, louder than any moment before this or any other moment after this.

Wordlessly, Prompto starts to take the lead, moving in even closer until his lips find their place pressed against Noctis’s forehead. He takes his time, taking in all the warmth that Noctis had to offer. In turn, he will offer all of his own, until Noctis’s empty eyes have filled again with the light they would’ve one had.

Noctis grips on tighter to the back of Prompto's coat.

“Prompto?”

He freezes.

A vision of his. So fleeting it was and now it’s been lost to the space around him.

“Something the matter?”

Prompto shakes his head.

The way Prince Noctis feels about him Prompto can never be certain of. He can never be certain of anything. He’s lived his whole life knowing that the world can change in an instant and that promises are never as powerful as they appear. But the way Prompto feels, that is the only thing in his life he knows for certain.

Above all else, of he knows that if he still controls his own emotions, it's a sign he hasn't lost yet.

Noctis begins to lift himself off the bench, sweeping the dust from his pants and coat. As Noctis turns back around, Prompto and Noctis lock eyes. All of sudden, Prompto's been overcome with some sort of emotion, one that he cannot easily place. He thinks back to his childhood, of any memories where his heart would've felt the same way. This incessant, rhythmic pounding of his heart.

As a child, his father never told him what  _love_ was. Prompto wonders if his father even knows what  _love_ is at all.

 

#  **_xii._ **

Every so often, the sinking feeling returns that his father will notice the missing documents from his study. Prompto had not taken the entire thing, only a small folder that rested inside the larger collection of papers. It was as much as he could hide in his coat with drawing suspicion from the medical staff, many of whom already find Prompto to be incredibly suspicious.

There were so many documents. His father couldn’t have possibly memorized the contents and names of each. And yet Prompto knows well that his father is a meticulous man, he’s taken more care to his reports than anything else he owns. And the photograph of his youthful father must have held at least some sentimental value to him if he was willing to preserve it.

Prompto had almost forgotten about the photograph. That is, until the thick stock fell from his jacket pocket and onto the floor, the edges showing wears and folds that hadn’t been there before.

As Prompto picks up the photograph, he takes a long look at it. Much longer than he had previously, long enough to take in every detail of it.

He’d say his father looks about twenty and no later than his early thirties. He’s wearing a snow-white lab coat and a stark suit underneath. The flash from the camera casts a glare across his large, circular lenses which obscures one of his eyes. His hair is tied up in a loose ponytail, down past his shoulders and nearly to his waist.

The sensation that Prompto feels as he stares at his smiling father is conflicting, leaving an irritable and somewhat sickening feeling sitting in his gut. This can’t be the same man, not the same one that Prompto sees today. The crooked smiles, the gentle shine in his eye. Where did it this young man go and how many years has it been since he’s disappeared?

As Prompto begins to grow sleepy, he takes out a small diary that looks to be hand-stitched at the bindings. It appears it too was in the folder and thin enough to have blended in with the rest of the reports.

Prompto rarely reads, aside from the letters Noctis sends him and the occasional newspaper. The thought that Prompto’s life is so dull he’s come to his father’s old diary for entertainment is honestly laughable, though he’s found no other immediate ideas. So he opens to the first page.

The writings date back to M.E. 712, long, long before Prompto was born.

It’s the tale of a military-minded young man. He was either born into such a family or convinced at a young age that there was nothing else in the world he’d be better to do. He was an inventor, a genius some might’ve said, and a star-studded example of what the Niflheim Empire wanted their youth to be. Passionate, patriotic and stupid enough to think that was all that mattered.

He sat across from the Emperor—or maybe, at this point, he was only the Prince. One hand was wrapped loosely around an ornate teacup while the other eagerly scratches at the cover of his folder.

“Your Highness,” he began. Was it Highness? Majesty? Grace? Regardless, the title was arbitrary. His respect for the now-Emperor seemed to be that of a companion and not a ruler.

He took a sip first, waited, then placed down his teacup with unusual gravity. “What do you think it takes to turn a man immortal?"

The Emperor’s ear perked with interest. He listened diligently, though he did not speak.

“I happened upon the thought while I was working on the newest design for our Magitek Cores. It’s an interesting technology, really, and one that I think could extend far beyond the realm of machines,” he continued. “If you would have me as one of your researchers, there’s much I’d be willing to do.”

The Emperor furrows his brow as he takes another sip of his tea. “I’m certain there is much you’d be willing to do, Besithia,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And is that all to the benefit of yourself or the benefit of Niflheim?

“To the benefit of us all, sir.”

The young man would fiddle with machinery, that was his specialty. He treated everything like just another toy he was waiting to fix. But whether or not he could fix together the immortal human, the immortal soul, was a different question altogether.

Of course, it's all just musing on Prompto's part. The words on the page can only reveal so much about the encounter.

He wants to read on just a little more but his eyes have grown so heavy with fatigue that he decides just to give up instead.

What is it like, Prompto wonders, to hold something with such a conviction that you'd follow it to the grave? What his father does, he said he did to the benefit of us all. Wholeheartedly, he believed those words. And he still does, even as he continues to fall from his former grace.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, they say. But how much longer until he's passed the road and arrived into the depths of hell itself?

 

#  **_xiii._ **

His father detests seeing him. That's what Prompto firmly believes. It’s stronger than belief, really. It is fact. Prompto is the ugliest reflection of his own sins, manifested in the form of a young man. He's only one of many. Quite fitting for a man of many sins.

So, as to why his father's visiting Prompto at this hour, is beyond him. Though the facility has very few windows that lead to the outside, Prompto is routinely informed when to sleep by his father’s couriers. He knows it's well past the time he should've been asleep. The seconds have been eating away at him.

His father is standing outside the room. His face carries the familiar air of disgust that he always has. Prompto noticed because of a knock on the glass. He instantly knew it wasn't one of his father's couriers, they're gentler. His father is curt and to the point. No time for bullshit.

Prompto groans as he lifts himself off the bed, the metal frame creaking under him. He can't be bothered to dress completely and lazily throws on a pair of pants and a tight black turtleneck with long sleeves, the one he usually wears under his coat.

"This is a special occasion, sir," Prompto says as his father enters the room. "And to what do I owe this honor?" He can get away with being mouthy with his father. Though only occasionally; if he pushes it over the edge, he's as good as dead.

His father hands him a slip of paper. This one is different than the others. A smaller size and thicker stock.

"New mission?"

His father nods.

Prompto unfolds the slip. Unlike before, there are no personal details, only the names _Gladiolus Amicitia_ and _Ignis Scientia_ written in choppy letters.

"Kill General Amicitia and Commodore Scientia when they next arrive.  It'll be within the coming month," his father says. "They've committed treason."

"Treason?"

"Treacherous actions against His Radiance, as reported by one of His Highness's maids," he says. “She smelled the rebellion on those two, and I can assure you that I did so too when I came to speak with them.”

Prompto opens his mouth to speak, though nothing comes out. He pauses and then: "Has this come out to the public? To Prince Noctis?"

"No, neither. His Highness is as carefree as ever," his father says. "A coddled brat. One who thinks too little about his duty and too much about himself."

Nothing he wouldn't expect of his father. He's a spineless, purebred loyalist to the Emperor's regime. Prompto scoffs. He wants to retort. Prompto wants to grab his gun and hold his father against the wall. He thinks of his meetings with Noctis. The bitterness in his voice, the guilt that lives in his stomach. A young man of heavy, dark eyes where the sunlight never reaches. The sorrow of it all.

"Take that back, fucker," he'd say. "You don't know anything about him."

His father has never seen Noctis’s eyes.

It'd be the perfect time to just end it all. His father is right there, uncovered. He practically has a target painted on his forehead. It says  _shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me._

_Run._

Prompto sits back down on his bed. The cold weight of the mattress is sucking him in. He'd rather have the coldness just consume all of him, rid him of his shame and cowardice. He has no power. The bullet is still sitting in the barrel. And yet if he shoots it, he doesn’t feel as though it’d do anything at all. There’s an impenetrable field, all around him and above him, that stops his limbs, or the bullet, from moving. The gun he has is completely powerless.

His father doesn’t notice anything. Not an odd twitch of the finger or a biting of the lip. Even the betrayal inside of Prompto’s mind has always been hidden to his father. It’s the one place he will never be able to reach. So long as everything else Prompto owns remains captive to the Empire, he still has his thoughts.

"Admittedly, this plan has gone without approval from His Radiance," his father continues. "You're doing this on my orders and you are to report back to me when you've completed the mission, understood?"

His throat feels ten times heavier. All of a sudden, he's become very acutely aware of everything. He's become acutely aware of the shaking in his hands.

 _Happy Birthday,_ Prompto says to himself. This is the first time his father has ever given him a birthday gift. When morning comes, Prompto will carry on back his bloody trophies.

"Yes sir,” Prompto says. “Consider it done.”

 

#  **_xiv._ **

What's the easiest way to kill a man? What’s the easiest way to kill a man with a gun? What's the easiest way to kill a man in his armor, Prompto thinks in the dead of night.

Prince Noctis and his retinue will arrive tomorrow. At what time exactly, Prompto isn't sure.

Prompto has already made up his mind. He will not kill Gladiolus and Ignis. Selfishly, if they do happen to be traitors, he's found himself an ally. An escape route. He has his thoughts of an escape plan. Prompto still has his thoughts, and if he kills either Gladiolus or Ignis, then he's completely lost himself to the Empire.

This won't do. Prompto can't fall asleep, not like this. There is no clock in the room but Prompto can already sense that he'll have another sleepless night tonight. He imagines the ticking noise of the clock. Tick, tick, tick. And it keeps on ticking, counting down seconds until the night melts away and the sun begins to consume the sky.

He gets up and collects his coat, tossed in a bundle on the ground. He throws it over himself and curls up into a ball.

While he's laying on his side, Prompto stares at the string decoration.

04295728\. 05443786. 02168250. 06391711. 03869570. 02168563. 05846341. 01154840. 03887543. 03998720. 01487624. 00765487. 05612346. 00886341. 00012333. 05445755. 05324412. 04577826. 00253634.

Methodically, he decides to read out all of the unit numbers to himself. Digit by digit.

“0.”

Everything begins in zeros. Everything begins from nothing. Like the ones and zeros that must make up an MTs basic programming. They're only robots after all. Unfeeling, unthinking.

He can still remember 04295728’s face for it was the face of 03726351 too. The face that Prompto shares, the face that they've stolen from their father. But he can't remember 04295728’s personality, his demeanor, the way he walked.

“3.”

Hopes, dreams, aspirations. The desire for something greater than oneself. Did 04295728 have any? Did 03726351 have any either?

“7.”

What do MTs dream of besides conquest? What do MTs dream of besides victory? What comes after Niflheim's victory is irrelevant to the mere taste of having it.

“2.”

Men without names. Numbers. He's killed them all and still, they won't call him a murderer. He's already taken so many lives, what's two more?

There's no use lying to himself. Prompto’s always been a murderer. It just wasn’t until now that he was willing to admit it.

 

 

When the Prince and his retinue arrive the next morning, Prompto feels a bitter taste on his tongue. It may be, that after twenty odd years, he's finally coughing up to daemon bile dormant in his body.

He gives Prince Noctis a sharp nod. His father is watching them, engulfed in his own eagerness. His lips rise at the corners devilishly. This murder isn't for the good of the Empire, it's for his father's own entertainment. After all these years, he's finally decided to rid Prompto of his only solace and watch him suffer. It feels like that, anyhow.

Prince Noctis and Gladiolus begin to walk away, while Ignis stays behind. Ignis and Prompto both stand sit, their gaze held for a few seconds too long.

“Chief Besithia ordered me to assist you with your mission,” Ignis says.

Apparently, Ignis has been sent here to babysit him. And of course, it's his father's trying to make this difficult on him. All things considered, Prompto would've thought being twenty was finally old enough that he didn't need to be watched anymore. Or maybe, the older he gets, the more they're worried that Prompto is a threat.

He thought that maybe he’d be able to take the easy way out and attack Ignis while he isn't looking. He doesn't want to test his luck, but maybe it would’ve been easier. None of this is _easy_ , but any chance for shortcuts Prompto is willing to take.

“Thank you, Commodore Scientia,” Prompto says. He's panicking on the inside but still tries to hold out a straight face.

Surely Ignis isn't a loyalist to the Emperor, but Prompto can't help but wonder if he's in trouble. Ignis and Gladiolus are wanted criminals now, or is that all another ruse of his father's?

Prompto swallows the spit in his throat. It's no use escaping the facility if it's only into another prison cell instead. Or worse, he'll die before he makes it to Gralea. He might as well take out Ignis first. A bad idea, perhaps, but if Ignis is out of the picture, it would make Prompto feel better about killing Gladiolus.

 _Get this over with_ , Prompto says to himself. Ignis is right in front of him, neck exposed.

Just as Prompto draws his pistol, Ignis snaps back.

Ignis turns around. “High Commander Besithia?”

Prompto's hand starts to shake. Fucking hell, it's so tempting to shoot but he can't. Now he isn't sure what to do, whether he should spare Ignis for the chance to escape or kill him and drag Ignis's dead body back to his father.

Ignis’s eyebrows furrow and his grip around the daggers tighten. “I don't have any reservations about killing you, you know,” Ignis sighs. “Shame that it has to come to this. You were nice company, High Commander Besithia.”

“And you as w—”

Metal hits the wall. Prompto's head whips around to see one of Ignis’s daggers stuck into it and a few of his hairs fluttering to the ground.

As he turns back around, a heavy weight knocks into his chest.

 _“Fuck_ ,” Prompto coughs out. He's winded, his lungs are about to collapse in on themselves. Prompto swears he heard one of his ribs crack. His vision goes white.

When he opens his eyes, Ignis has him pinned to the ground.

“Dirty bastard,” Prompto says, spitting out blood.

“I told you I didn't have any reservations.”

In this instance the weight of Ignis’s entire body makes it feel as though he's been cast out of iron. Prompto struggles, pathetically even, as he tries to shake Ignis off of him.

Finally, he manages to knee Ignis in the spine and he recoils from the pain. While Ignis is distracted, Prompto forces him off an uses his left foot to knock the other dagger out from Ignis's hand.

He takes the dagger and fumbles to get Ignis into a chokehold, all the while slamming him against the wall with great force. Prompto pushes Ignis further into the wall. His right hand is shaky as he's holding Ignis' own dagger up against his main artery.

"Don't fuck with me, Scientia," he says. "What's the prince planning?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Ignis says with a cocky smirk. Prompto is almost impressed, Ignis keeps together quite well. But the trembling of his fingers doesn't lie. He's nervous.

"I said: _don't fuck with me,"_ Prompto hisses. " _Tell me_."

Prompto lifts the dagger from Ignis's neck and cuts him across the cheek. Ignis flinches but his eyes are fixed dead ahead. Unblinking, unwavering.

It's no puncture too deep, just enough that he starts bleeding. Ignis grunts yet says nothing.

He can commend Ignis's loyalty, at the very least.

"Dad already told me the Empire thinks you're a traitor," Prompto says. "You'll end up dead meat either way."

Ignis grunts then kicks Prompto in the stomach, forcing him to back off.

With a sigh, Ignis limps over to the other side of the corridor and leans against the wall, his arms crossed.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Prompto says. "I thought this was supposed to be a fight."

"A fight I've deemed pointless now that I know what you really want," Ignis says. As he smirks, the blood from his cheek drips and stains his armor. "If you had the conviction to kill me, you would've done it."

Prompto gulps. Ignis is good at reading people and Prompto knows this goes beyond simple words. He doesn't need to say anything when Ignis already knows what he's thinking.

However, Prompto does feel reassured in the thought that Ignis was hesitant to kill him too.

Prompto huffs and lets the dagger fall to the floor. "You're right. I want info," he says. "The three of you have been suspicious as hell this whole time and I feel like an idiot for not knowing what you're up to."

Ignis stares back at Prompto in contemplation. He's staring at Prompto, though not entirely, as though half of him is staring far off into the distance, at the unknown space in between them. His face is filled with utter anger, or maybe regret. He's still tough to read, but regret is something Prompto recognizes well. Regret at not killing the fool sitting right in front of him.

Even still, behind those eyes must be some sense of mercy if Ignis doesn't have the conviction to kill him either.

Arms still crossed against his chest, Ignis sighs. "Noct's been long planning the day he would seize the throne from the Emperor. Unfortunately, he makes his plans with too little foresight," Ignis says. “There aren't many in the Empire loyal to His Highness. His reputation remains just as sour as his father's. Or your father's, for that matter.”

“Says who?” Prompto asks. “I mean, who's saying they don't trust Prince Noctis?”

“Right now, in Gralea, there’s a sort of silent war raging between those who are loyal to the Emperor and those who are loyal to the Prince,” Ignis says. “The Emperor's loyalists want to eliminate the rebel threat as quickly as possible. And your father wanted you to kill Gladio and myself so we wouldn't be a threat to His Radiance anymore, is that correct?”

The Emperor's loyalists, his father included. His father who must've been reporting back to the Emperor this whole time.

“But with your help, we stand a much better chance,” Ignis says. “Someone with inside knowledge about Niflheim’s artillery would be nice indeed.”

They've been looking for allies this whole time. Initially, Prompto doesn't reply. He wants to reply and yet he doesn't know how. Ignis is reaching out his left hand eagerly.

“You don't mind keeping a secret, do you?”

Prompto slaps away Ignis’s hand."Well _alright_ , your secret's safe with me," Prompto says. "If I don't keep my word, you're free to cut my tongue off."

Ignis smiles, satisfied but also somewhat dejected. "Quite the loyal one, aren't you? Though I can't be sure where exactly that loyalty lies."

"Loyal to myself, mostly," Prompto says. "But I'd say I'm a pretty good actor too."

"Then you and I have more in common than I originally thought," Ignis says.

He bends over, most certainly out of breath. Prompto can't blame him, he's feeling a bit lightheaded himself. Once Ignis stands back up again, he walks with a bit of a limp.

"Oh, _shit_ , are you alright?" Prompto says. _Stupid question._ "I, uh—Sorry for hurting you."

"Not to worry," Ignis says, straightening his back. "After all, we wouldn't be His Highness's retainers if we weren't made to last."

 

#  **_xv._ **

His father is waiting to be reported back to. And now, now that Prompto has decided not to, his father's suspicions must be confirmed. Yes, it was a test, it was a test this whole time. After all these years, he must've sensed his dutiful, patriotic son was transforming into an idiotic rebel. His time is running out. His father will send another unit to kill him and then it'll be the end of Prompto Besithia.

It will be written on his non-existent obituary. Post-mortem, Prompto will write it himself. Here lies the fool that didn't run when he had the chance.

Prompto keeps thinking about the coldness of his own hands as he slapped Ignis away. It disgusts him. After all these years, what he wants is right in front of him. Bait to a bear’s cage and yet he still won't eat it. This battle between the familiar actions of his body and the desires of his mind keeps happening. Why won’t his body obey him? Why can’t he just run?

When they next arrive, Ignis will look at him expectantly. Or, with a hint of betrayal at the fact that Prompto's still here, in Niflheim. There might even be a hint of sorrow in those determined eyes of his. Mournful for the fact that Prompto is throwing his life away.

(And short though his life might be, every second that Prompto spends here is one second that he's stolen away from freedom.)

Prompto tosses and turns in his bed. The openness of his room is starting to close in on him. He feels just as cramped as when he was still sleeping in the pods. Even the air around his is starting to taste unbearable now. It never did taste this sour before.

 

 

To Prompto’s surprise, Ignis does not look at him. He does not look at him in disgust. Ignis’s look carries no emotion at all and his eyes are like heavy stone slates. Circles of darkness where no light reaches.

Regardless of the fact that Prompto has rejected them, they’ve come back again. It means that Prompto was right, they want to assassinate his father. Either that or they want to interrogate him. Whatever it is they want, they will keep coming back until they've gotten it.

Ignis and Gladiolus do not speak. Noctis does not speak. Prompto does not speak. Instead, they all share one, longing and painful silence that tells louder than words.

Noctis walks past Prompto, his head held forward. No turning back. Then, in one long quick motion, Prompto reaches behind him and grabs onto Noctis's arm.

“You’re looking to kill him, aren't you?”

Noctis says nothing. He takes in one sharp breath before he speaks. And as the words leave his lips, there's something different about him. Darker, deeper.

“If we do kill him, what’ll happen to you?” Noctis says. His voice is barely above that of a whisper.

What will happen to him? He never thinks of that, he never has a chance to think about that. It never was about what happened to him, it was about what happens to the rest of Niflheim.

He feels Noctis’s arm starting to shake.

Prompto pulls Noctis in and wraps his arms around him. He feels his chest heaving as Noctis begins to sniffle, even cry, into the fabric of his uniform.

The warmth of Noctis's body lays close to his own. Closer than it's ever been before. In his head are a thousand swirling visions. They're all his own imagination of the scenario, each slightly different yet always very much the same. His encounters with Noctis replayed over and over for the thousandth time.

"Prince Noctis, I want to disappear from here," Prompto says. "Have I ever told you that?"

This is closest he's ever been to the outside. His hand edges ever closer to Noctis's as Noctis is resting his head on Prompto's shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure you could easily kill everyone in here and make your escape," Noctis says. "So why don't you?"

Prompto's lips tighten into a thin line. _So why don't you?_ He needs to answer, but he isn't sure how. _Because I can't_ , is that what he wants to say? He knows he can't, but what's stopping him? Killing's the easy part, he has a whole wall of trophies to prove it.

"I can't say," Prompto feels his throat getting heavy. "Maybe cause I knew it wasn't worth it."

Noctis frowns. He’s not satisfied with that answer, though Prompto expected just as much.

“Call me lame but you can’t say it isn’t worth it if you haven’t tried,” Noctis says.

Prompto starts to bite down on his lip until it starts to bleed. “My father would stop me before I got very far,” he says, against his better judgment. It’s what he’s been thinking this whole time. It doesn’t matter how hard Prompto will try to escape, the hold his father has over him is too strong to break.

“I know that you wanna kill him, but I don't know what good that'll do,” Prompto continues. “He's been planning shit for years, has it all figured out. Once he's gone he'll come back again, inside one of his fucked up daemon machines. It'll be his so-called ‘ _ascension to divinity’_. And then you'll just have given him everything he's ever wanted.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

"I don't know," Prompto says.

In one motion, Noctis breaks free from Prompto's arms and wipes his face. Then, he turns around and lifts a single finger towards Gladiolus and Ignis. The two return him a nod.

"Prin— _Noct_!"Prompto says as he grips onto Noctis's arm. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Noctis wiggles his arm to free it from Prompto's grip. “We’re breaking outta here," he says.

"You're an idiot, Your Highness," Prompto says, almost a snarl. "This is not something worth the risk."

Noctis isn't listening. He's already matching ahead. His face is turned away from Prompto but he doesn't need to see him to recognize his expression. One of utmost certainty.

"Y'know, maybe my dad was right after all," Prompto says. "You are a br—"

He’s cut off by Ignis shoving him to the side, the tip of his dagger just barely grazing Prompto’s face.

The clinking of metal. A couple of bullet shells hit the ground. When he tilts his head upwards, sore from impact, the smoke is the first thing that catches Prompto's eyes. Then comes the raging rounds of a gun being emptied as the bullets hit the wall.

They've been found. The MTs are closing in on them. This is what Prompto pays for his cowardice. He couldn't kill Gladiolus or Ignis and now the MTs will do it themselves.

“ _Shit_ ,” Prompto hisses as one of the bullets grazes his arm. The MTs don't care who the hurt in the process, as long as Gladiolus and Ignis are taken out. And Prompto—Prompto is just as expendable as any other in their eyes. He's a traitor, one that must die as brutally as the others.

The aerial hangar. Shit, the aerial hangar. If it hasn't been flooded with an MT squadron already, that could be their best bet to escape.

He yells at Noctis, Gladiolus, and Ignis to follow him. The words come out more like a howl, the roar of a maimed beast.

Prompto runs. For the first time in his life, Prompto runs. And as he's running he finds himself smiling. Is it the adrenaline clouding his brain? Or is it because this what he's always wanted to do? His legs carry him away, free of weight or of gravity that once held him down.

He snags a rifle off of an MT sniper and pushes past the swarm of MTs. 

Just keep running, Prompto tells himself. Don't focus on anything else and just keep running. He refuses to look back and simply holds faith that the others will do okay. Strength in trust.

Prompto nearly crashes into the metal door and hurriedly lifts his sleeve and scans his barcode.

**WARNING: THIS UNIT HAS BEEN COMPROMISED. INITIATING RETRIEVAL OF COMPROMISED UNIT.**

They're trying to shut him down at every corner. Everything's gone into emergency mode. Blaring noises, flashing red lights. Just another thorn in Prompto's side, as if he needed any more than he already had.

From the door, he can see an exit. A bright, intense light that floods in from the outside world.

Prompto gestures for the Prince and his retinue to move forward. Noctis, Ignis, and Gladiolus will fight down below as Prompto takes the high ground and begins shooting at the rogue MTs.

And once his rifle's out of ammunition, against any reservation he might have, Prompto decides to unhook a bazooka from the weapon stores and readies himself.  _Launch._ The explosion resonates through the whole hanger.

He keeps pushing through. He can't stop and think, he needs to  _go._  

Just as Prompto hops on the snowmobile, he finds himself feeling uncharacteristically elated. Is his father watching him as he escapes? He hopes so.

Noctis hops on the snowmobile with him, with Ignis and Gladiolus closely behind on a different one. The engine begins to riff, so loudly that the bullet shells crashing to the walls and the mechanical marching of the MTs fade to silence.

“Are you a good driver?”

“We’ll see.”

Prompto looks back one last time to see his father in the distance. His father _does_ know. Finally, he knows. His father certainly can't see him or hear him and yet, as if all of the air had been forced out of his lungs, he lets out one last deafening cry before slamming forward on the snowmobile.

The air. This is the air outside of the facility. It's cold and painful but it's still air. Breath, breath. Prompto tries his hardest just to breathe but there's so much running through his mind.

What does he think about? His body doesn't follow his brain anymore. Just keep going, just keep going.

Noctis is yelling at him, Prompto can barely make out the words. Careful, careful, Noctis is asking him to be careful. There are still troops in front, behind and all around him. But he has no time to think about that, about anything behind him, he just needs to keep racing forward.

He slams on the gas. Prompto can feel Noctis remove one of the guns from his holster and he shoots sporadically behind them. Prompto takes in hand the other gun, magazine nearly empty. There's no time. He shoots all around. The recoil vibrates through his whole body.

No time to think, no time. Just keep moving forward, keep moving forward.

"There! Turn!"

He jerks the steering wheel right, almost tempted to look back as he hears a large crash that sounds like metal against a rock. Did Gladiolus and Ignis crash?

Just keep moving forward, keep moving forward.

His heart's still racing, he can feel it in his ears. Pressed against his back, Noctis tightens his arms around Prompto's waist. Noctis's heaving, almost loud enough to be heard among the roar of the snowmobile.

The snowmobile comes to a halt near a frozen lake. Prompto’s breathing starts to slow down, as does Noctis’s. He jerks back around to see Ignis and Gladiolus pull up behind them, equally as exhausted and faces growing red from the cold.

As Prompto lifts himself off the snowmobile, he collapses to the ground. On the surface of the lake, he sees his own reflection. His face is dirty, bloodstained from years long past. His blonde hair so unruly and uncut has the back of his hair nearly down to his shoulders. The front and his fringe, meanwhile, is uneven in length.

“Ignis, can I borrow a knife?” he says, still a little out of breath.

From Ignis's outstretched palm, he takes the handle of the dagger. As he begins to bunch together his hair in one hand, he fiddles with the knife in the other and closes his eyes. Through the darkness, Prompto sees him. There was another man once. He was young and ambitious, both his hair and his head full of peroxide. He had hopes that he would transform Niflheim into something great.

 _Never again_. Prompto slices just above where his hand holds together the bunched up hair. The cuts left behind are jagged, but it doesn't matter, not above everything else. The severed strands flutter to the ground, completely invisible in the snow.

Through the reflection of the dagger, Prompto stares at his own eyes. A little ring of red around irises so bright and blue.

This is it; it's Prompto's first step out of here. And beyond that, waiting for him, there's a whole new world.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer(s): i'm definitely not a doctor, so i wholeheartedly apologize to all the doctors out there because medical stuff i included is just a bunch of horseshit. also, i referred back to episode prompto for lore stuff but i probably made some mistakes so sorry about that too. but hopefully you enjoyed anyways! this is probably the longest one-shot i'll ever write and hopefully it was worth it in the end!


End file.
